


Wolves and Beasts

by Helholden



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Biting, Bloodplay, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to rip away the veil and see what you are made of beneath it: bone white and blood red, and deep, deep, deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves and Beasts

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Title comes from "Big Eyes" by Kyla La Grange. It's the perfect Pydia song. Listen to it if you haven't!

* * *

 

When he first approaches you, you think he means to play nice. The light is off in your room, but the glow from the window sets a gleam against his hair and his face is guarded in silhouette. His hands are soft, and his lips are even softer when they touch yours. You feel the faint touch of his fingertips on your neck, tracing delicately as if you are a china doll and his hands are iron rods. It sets a tingle to your spine, and your shoulders feel it, too.

 

You feel the ghost of his breath wash over your nose as he lifts his lips to your forehead while his hand cups your cheek. You tilt your face down, and he kisses you there, lovingly, like he cares. You think he might, but it’s dangerous territory and you’re not ready to walk there.

 

You don’t want to think about it. You just want to feel.

 

Peter makes a good show of holding the back of your head as he kisses you like a young man in love—but he’s no young man, and this is not love. He makes an even better show of softly peeling off your clothes piece by piece until they pile up on the floor below at your feet. He leans forward and places his lips against your bare shoulder, his mustache tickling the skin with little faint prickles, as his hands roam slowly down your back.

 

His palms make circles on your lower back, and you arch into him, shoulders out and chest and stomach in, and he catches your lips with his and pulls you against him—flushed, naked, you are both, save for your panties and skirt. Those remain still, but so does his shirt. You slip your hands beneath the hem, and he obliges, removing it quickly and tossing it aside.

 

When he pulls you back to him, he is warm. His skin is hot, hotter than anything you think you’ve ever touched before, and this is when his mouth becomes more demanding. He knows what he wants, and Peter always gets what he wants, but you want something, too—and you’ve always had a knack for getting the same.

 

He hoists you onto the nearest flat surface he can find—your vanity—and knocks half the stuff off of the top of it before setting you down. He pushes your skirt back and grasps your legs under the knees, hoisting those up, too. You realize quickly that he wants them propped up, so you settle your heels on the vanity’s edge on either side of you, and he pulls your panties out from under you and halfway up your thighs.

 

He doesn’t remove them; they’re tight, the cloth cutting into your skin with your body in the position it’s in. They prevent your legs from spreading too far. Peter leans you into the vanity’s cold mirror, his warm breath ghosting over your face again—his hand, it’s there, his thumb pressing circles against your clit.

 

You’re turned on, but uncomfortable. The glass is cold, the wood is cutting. The panties around your thighs are digging in deep, but he’s using all of his fingers now and he keeps working those delicious circles on you. You’re slowly starting to forget about the pain. He likes to make you feel pain. He likes to make you feel it, and then erase it with pleasure. He likes to confuse you. Most of all, though, he likes to fuck you.

 

You think if you’d allow it, he’d bring a knife into the bedroom and call it an adventure.

 

You start to squirm. There’s an ache in your legs; it’s beginning to hurt. He slides his index finger inside, warm and wet with ease, and you have to bite back your moans as he finger fucks you. Your mother is asleep on the same floor. You don’t want her waking up to find an older man doing God knows what to you on the vanity dresser in your room. You’re not sure you could explain that to her in a way that wouldn’t end with her calling the cops.

 

He catches you off guard. You don’t know when he dropped his pants, but he’s inside of you with one full stroke, and you gasp as your body arches rigidly at the intrusion. Pain, pleasure; he confuses you with both, and then he kisses you hungrily as he begins a rhythm inside of your body. Each stroke fills you deeply; it’s the angle, you gather, that he has you at.

 

At one point, he places his hand flat against your stomach. Your back is pushed into the mirror, and he fucks you with shallow strokes as he holds you in place to prevent you from moving. Your toes curls tightly, so tightly they hurt, and your teeth sink deep into your lip on more than one occasion to bite back screams. You can’t scream, though you want to, but he gets a perverse thrill out of this part. He likes to make you struggle.

 

You moan in a way that sounds too much like pain, and he stops—briefly—he is worried, after all. You find yourself surprised, but not as surprised as you could be. You decide to take advantage of the situation, looping one hand around the back of his neck as the other grips for purchase on the edge of your vanity. You use both holds for leverage as you slide back onto his cock of your own accord.

 

He forgets about his worry instantly; he grips you back, fills you with one stroke, and stills against you as he bottoms out. He gasps and you gasp, too. His hands are holding each side of your face, and he breathes against your mouth through open lips. A moment passes, and the two of you start up again.

 

The vanity shakes this time, banging against the wall with each jerky movement of his hips, and you scrabble for purchase on his arms, his shoulders, his neck. “ _No_ ,” you manage to hiss out softly but fiercely. “No, no, no, my mom—”

 

Peter understands immediately. Before you know it, his arms have hoisted you up, and he carries you over to the bed with ease.

 

He lays you down, peacefully, places little ghosts of kisses against your forehead, jaw, neck, and collarbone. You think he means to make love to you this time as his fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, removing them from your legs, and his mouth captures yours in a slow kiss as the moonlight touches your skin. You can feel it, cool and icy, like the touch of a breeze.

 

You think he means to play nice. By the look in his eyes and the slow movements of his body, you are lulled into that false perception. As he sinks into you again, you gasp against his mouth, and his tongue flicks out to lick your lips softly. You think he means to play nice, but as soon as he’s inside of you one way, he wants to be inside of you another way, and he moves to your neck, sharp teeth sinking deep into the flesh above your clavicle, breaking skin, blood filling up his mouth in an effort to claim you in more than one way.

 

You become dizzy and disconnected, the room around you a hazy dream for just a moment in time. There’s pain, but there’s also pleasure as you soar somewhere between both in ecstasy with your hand in his hair as he fucks you with long, deep strokes to keep your body confused as to what it’s feeling.

 

When he lets you go, the bite is not so deep as it felt. His face hovers above you, lips bloodstained red in the glimpse of light from your window, and he bends down to kiss you, tasting of salt and iron. You grip him hard and angle your hips upright, pulling him in deeper, wanting to feel alive. Your hands slide up his body from his ass to his neck, grasping firmly with both hands. You have not the sharpness of his teeth, but the proclivity of his bite, and you return the favor by clamping down hard on his collarbone while your hands slip from his neck to his shoulders and your nails dig deep into the flesh. You give him pain, the same as he gave you.

 

He moans, a low and broken noise, and loses his rhythm. Your teeth aren’t sharp enough to break the skin, so you pull back and slap him hard.

 

Peter freezes, shock registering in his eyes. When you reach up and softly lick his lips, he realizes the mood has not changed as your eyes meet—he gives one good hard thrust afterwards to make sure you feel it. You squeak in surprise, a sound embarrassing enough to make your cheeks flush with heat, but he doesn’t care. It spurns him forward, and you kiss him deeply as you both find the ebb and flow of your bodies together once again.

 

You slap him again when he least expects it, the sound resonating loudly in the air, and your laughter filling up the emptiness after. He snatches your wrists and pins them to the bed. You’re playing a game with him he does not like and yet he enjoys at the same time, and you feel the intensity of his gaze as he drives home inside of you. You turn your head up as an orgasm hits your nerves, sending out pleasant tingling shocks, but he grabs your chin and forces your head back down all of a sudden—and you open your eyes indignantly, but he is staring right at you—bright blue eyes locking intensely with your gaze.

 

The intimacy overwhelms you, and you feel your muscles clench and spasm as you ride out the waves of your climax with him witnessing every moment of it. Your vision turns black for a second or two, and your eyes roll back. Your whole body feels it, and you lose yourself in the sensations. He sees all of it, and he feels it, too.

 

You hate it and you love it. There are no other words for it. He strips you bare, and you want to feel embarrassed and angry and offended—but he eats it up in his hunger to possess something that isn’t his own reward, and he loves to watch you in the prime of your own ecstasy. You’ve never met anyone’s eyes during an orgasm before, but there is a first time for everything and Peter likes to be it.

 

His pace quickens; he is aggressive and more demanding as he strives to find his own release in you—and he fucks you better than any boyfriend you’ve ever had and you’ll take it, even if he’s not your boyfriend. You don’t know what he is to you, but with his cock this deep inside of you, titles seem hardly of relevance.

 

You know he’s done when his grip loosens all of a sudden and his breath hitches against your ear as he stills abruptly. He never pulls out immediately—he lingers in you, gentle, erratic thrusts of his hips continuing as he lowers his face to your neck and groans quietly. He has found his peace in you as you have found yours, and you blink your eyes slowly against the shadowy backdrop of your room. It seems brighter now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. It wasn’t as dark as you remember it being earlier.

 

His arms, strong around you, roll you both over until you are on top of him and he is on his back below you. His hand is buried deep in your mess of hair as he holds you close, his forehead pressed to yours and your hair a curtain around you both.

 

You’ve never gotten used to this part. No matter how many times he does it, you never get used to it. Your nerves quake, and he mistakes it for the aftershocks of ecstasy. He runs his thumb along your cheek and tilts his face up to place his lips to yours. He kisses you in a way that men kiss the things that they cherish, but you know he doesn’t cherish you. He can’t, anyway. He shouldn’t.

 

You pull away from the kiss, staring down at him in the dark.

 

“You shouldn’t bite me,” you say. “I can’t explain the marks.”

 

“Apologies,” he murmurs. He traces a finger along your neck, down to the fresh wound his teeth have made. “I forget.”

 

“No, you don’t,” you say back, feeling a little indignant again. “You like to break the rules—”

 

He pulls you down suddenly, and your breath hitches in your throat. He draws you close to him with his hand on the back of your neck, breathing you in. He rubs the tip of his nose against yours. No matter how soft he is, there is always the threat of his power beneath it, and you know how strong he is.

 

“I can’t help that I want to eat you alive,” he whispers against your lips, sending trickles down your spine.

 

“If you do it one more time,” you warn him, finding your voice not as steady as before, “this ends.”

 

He pauses, regarding you in the moonlight. You can’t tell if he’s surprised or if it’s something else entirely on his face, but his eyes slant and his head tilts to the side. He lifts his hand to your face, the back of his index finger tracing a smooth arc down your cheek.

 

“Does it?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” you whisper.

 

His hand falls further towards your neck, his thumb and fingers apart from each other but placed perfectly in a position to snap your neck if he wanted to. You don’t know where the thought comes from; he wouldn’t, you think, but even as you think it, you tremble. His thumb grazes down the center of your throat, eyes following the path.

 

Instead, he lifts up from the bed to kiss you, a soft touch of his lips to yours, and his hand falls from your throat to graze fingers along your collarbone. You forget whatever anger you had; that was his goal, after all. You find your lips kissing him back with fervor and your hands taking root in his hair despite your words. You’ll dance this dance with him again on another night, and maybe a few more times on this night until you’re tired and worn. His stamina is a match for you, even as insatiable as you are.

 

Peter rolls you both over until he’s on top of you once more, and you curl your arms around his shoulders and pull him close. You lose yourself in the touch and taste of his mouth. No matter what rules he breaks, you know it won’t end just yet.

 

You know you don’t want it to.

 

 


End file.
